Knocking Heads
by RWM1995
Summary: Rose knows that she was born for the role of Head Girl. She just hopes she can survive the partnership ahead.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Just a fluffy one-shot set during the first few hours of Rose and Scorpius' seventh year at Hogwarts! Enjoy (and please R&R)!

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"I was born for this," the freckled redhead whispers to herself, smiling half at her own propensity toward melodrama and half in anticipation of the coming school year. She runs her finger lightly over the contours of the badge pinned over her right breast. Head Girl. Finally.

A Granger-Weasley with her mother's intelligence, her father's charisma, and their combined pluck, Rose has excelled within and without the Hogwarts classroom, maintaining nearly straight Os in her core classes while juggling her Prefect position and co-captainship of Gryffindor's Quidditch team–the best, it's rumored, in nearly a century. It's all very cliché, she muses as she strides down the Express' corridor, sparing a wink for an infatuated Fourth Year and a quickly blown kiss out the window for her weeping mother.

"I'll just be a minute," she promises, poking her head into her family's compartment. "I've a meeting, but it shouldn't take long."

Albus is already snoring, Roxanne and Lucy are arguing over a travel-sized chessboard, and Hugo doesn't even look up from his book. Only Lily acknowledges her, smiling sweetly. "Good luck. And hurry back, I've a question about Harley O'Connor."

Rose rolls her eyes at her younger cousin. "He's still taken, you know," she reminds Lily. "And you could do much better."

"You could do better than Scorpius Malfoy, but that didn't stop you from drooling over him all through Christmas dinner," Lily retorts crossly.

This captures Hugo's attention, but only briefly.

Rose flushes. "Bite your tongue, Lily Luna. I was not _drooling_. I was… astounded by his presence, that's all."

"He's been Al's best friend for six years," Lily scolds. "For someone with such very _Slytherin_ tastes, you're a rotten liar."

"Shove off." Rose turns on her heel and adds, over her shoulder, "And I'm owling James about your crush on O'Connor!" Ignoring her cousin's sputterings, Rose continues down the corridor, pausing in front of the Head's compartment and willing her blush to dissipate. _Curse these Weasley genes_. She wonders whether her new suitemate and partner will be a Scamander twin or Dalton Medina, Ravenclaw's star Chaser and certifiable eye candy. She turns the doorknob and—

"Oh, fuck me."

The expletive burst out before she can stop it. She'd recognize that cloak anywhere: midnight silk, emerald clasps, serpent insignia and a decidedly feminine "M" stitched beneath the collar. Her gaze darts to the furthest corner of the Prefect's carriage, where the morning light glints almost ridiculously off of Scorpius Malfoy's white-blond hair. She barely stifles a groan of frustration, kicking the door closed and sagging heavily against the wall. "Fuck me," she repeats, stiffening when Malfoy rises slowly and walks toward her, crossing pale, toned arms across his chest.

"Ask me nicely, and I just might," he drawls, signature smirk playing about his mouth.

She scowls up at him, jabbing a finger into his chest. "Don't start with me," she warns. "Not yet." Throwing up her hands in exasperation, she drops onto the plush bench, burying her face in her hands. "Of all people, why _you_?" she moans.

"Striking good looks, wicked intellect, and charisma to rival your dear cousin James," he replies smoothly, and she can actually _hear_ the smirk in his low, velvety voice. "Making Head Boy was, for me, somewhat inevitable."

She lowers her fingers, peaking between them to glare at her nemesis. "God, you're conceited."

He shrugs and sits down across from her, folding one long leg across the other. "No more than you are melodramatic."

"Don't be a ponce," she warns.

"I'm merely expressing Merlin's truth."

"Yes, aren't you just a model Hufflepuff," she sneers.

He laughs. "You're cute with your feathers ruffled."

"I'm not _ruffled_ , and I'm not fucking _cute_."

"Goddamn adorable, I'd say."

Her face flushes crimson. "Shove off."

"Testy?"

She surges to her feet. "I _said_ shove off, Malfoy!"

He arches a perfect blond brow. "Jesus, Red, I was only—"

"I hate you," she interrupts in a dangerous voice. "I despise your snicker and your fucking swagger and the sound of your goddamn voice. I've plotted your murder more than once, but today I'd settle for your silence. _Fuck_ _off_."

There is a long beat of silence, and then an indignant: "I don't _swagger_."

"That's it!" she howls, barreling toward him, but before she can Bat Bogey him into next weekend, he's gripping her shoulders and slanting his mouth to hers. It's rough and demanding and possessive and just about the sexiest thing she's ever known, and when his hands slide down her arms to bracket her waist, she rolls her hips against his in approval.

He growls appreciatively into her mouth, propelling her against the wall with a muffled thud. Her fingers tunnel into his silky hair while his tuck under the leather of her belt and make her vision swim. "Malfoy," she gasps when his lips trail down her throat to the hard length of her collarbone. "The door. The Prefects."

His ministrations immediately cease as his head swivels toward the unlocked door. "Fuck it," he bites out, grabbing her face and pressing a hard, quick kiss to her mouth. "Let them see."

She finds herself trapped between a limb-melting, debilitating lust and a hatred borne of seven long years of rivalry, but he tastes of spearmint and cedar and rebellion, so she slides her hands under his shirt and kisses him back.

"Something tells me this is going to be good year," he notes breathlessly, one hand on her arse and the other in her hair.

Rose throws her head back, allowing him to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to her throat. "Don't get used to it," she warns, curling her fingers around his biceps.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he mumbles against her skin. "Merlin, you're beautiful."

She groans. "Fuck it, so are you."

 _Lily was right_ , she thinks wryly. _I'm a rotten liar_.


	2. Chapter 2

She doesn't know why they're fighting. Truthfully, neither one of them does, but this is what they _do_ , and they can't stop until someone's been intellectually bested, hexed, or rendered unconscious. They've long since discarded their robes, and Rose's face is flushed crimson in either rage or excitement. When Scorpius, whose Malfoy genes dictate flawless ivory skin at all times—and likely prevent him from processing danger effectively—points this out, Rose pounces.

"Fuck you and go to hell!"

He barks out a harsh laugh. "What, and spend eternity with you? Merlin forbid!"

She glares up at him, presses her palms to his chest, and shoves him hard enough to send him stumbling backward against the wall with a dull thud.

"That _hurt_ , Red," he growls, rubbing the back of his head and leaning towards her. "I could have you reported."

"That's the point," she snarls. "And stop calling me that."

"You are such a _bitch_."

"And _you_ are a spineless, egotistical areshole, and I hate you!" she spits back.

"Feeling's mutual, _Red_."

They're toe-to-toe, chest to chest, and each of their labored breaths seems to press them closer to one another.

"Excellent!" Her shrill voice breaks the silence. "Since our mutual loathing is finally sorted, let's…let's just do our jobs…you know, attend to our duties…and…" She trails off with a shiver when his hand cups the curve of her hip. "What are you—"

"You're trembling," he whispers.

"Yes, well…you're making me…very angry," she breathes back. He almost smiles.

"You look flustered."

"I'm _angry_ , you thick, loathsome, little—"

"The feeling's mutual."

"Stop fucking interrupting— _oh_!"

He cuts her off with a searing kiss, pressing her against the wall and shoving a leg between her thighs.

She moans into his mouth, rising onto her tiptoes and fisting her hands in his collar. His hand slides up and under her shirt, stroking her back with a restrained sort of gentleness that Rose deems intimate and totally out of character. But they don't do _intimate_ and they certainly don't do _gentle._ They do hot and heavy and aggressive, and she reminds him by biting down hard on his bottom lip.

"Red," he breathes, resting his forehead against hers, struggling to steady his breathing. "I-"

"Well don't bloody _stop_."

It's all the permission he needs. He all but tears off her shirt, trailing hot, wet kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, to the swell of her breasts. She whimpers, hooking her fingers into his belt loops and pulling his hips impossibly closer.

"Careful, Weasley," he warns with a strangled groan.

"Scared?" she teases, laving at his throat.

His closes one hand over her right breast and cups her arse with the other. She gasps against his lips. "Not likely," he replies.

They snog desperately for a few more moments, before Rose manages, "Bed. Now."

This isn't the first time they've resolved a fight with a make-out session, and in the back of Rose's mind, she grimly acknowledges that it won't be the last. After all, she reasons, Malfoy's fit, and attacking his mouth with hers is almost like conquering him.

Almost.

Except it's not.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: This is basically pure smut. Sorry not sorry. I love these two together. Maybe one day they'll be normal and date. Who knows. Enjoy!

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"You're pretty," he mumbles against her swollen mouth, allowing himself to be pushed roughly onto Rose's bed.

She rolls her eyes. "You keep saying that." She begins to work the buttons of his shirt, and he all but whimpers, settling his hands on the curve of her hips and dragging her across his body.

Rose laughs. "Impatient, aren't we?"

"Don't pretend you're not." He flips them so that he's hovering over her, fire-bright curls splayed across the pillow, shirtless, breathing hard. _Beautiful_ , he wants to say, but he doesn't. She reaches up to finish off his shirt, and he blindly wrestles it off, chucking it somewhere across the room and lowering his mouth to hers.

"Malfoy," she groans, knotting her fingers in his hair, her hips bucking up to meet his. He trails his mouth from her lips down the curve of her neck and the length of her torso, eliciting whimpers that make his trousers infinitely less comfortable. His kiss pauses at the waistband of her bunched-up skirt, and he meets her lust-darkened gaze. " _Please_ ," she whispers.

He knows better than to try with the zipper of that damned skirt, so he makes it disappear entirely with a flick of his wand.

"Hey!" Rose scolds.

"I'll buy you a new one," he lies, mesmerized by her choice of lingerie. "Lace, Weasley? Prepared, were you?"

She flushes and rises up on her elbows to glare at him. "They're _comfortable_ , you bastard. I certainly didn't wear them for you."

He slides one finger beneath the fabric, caressing her hot, damp flesh, and she falls back against the pillows with a shudder. "No, of course not," he replies smoothly. "Still, the Slytherin colors look absolutely—"

"Oh, shove _off_!"

He grins, presses a swift kiss to her mouth, and devotes his attention to her center. Her underwear joins his shirt on the floor, and he parts her legs with an uncharacteristic tenderness before claiming her with his mouth. She's writhing beneath him, sheets fisted in her small hands, and it only takes minutes for her to unravel around him with a strangled cry. She calls him Scorpius, and he has to catch his breath. He curls his arms around her and listens to her heart rate slow back down.

"Okay," she mumbles against his chest. "Your turn." She makes quick work of his pants, strokes the hard length of him once, twice, three times before he grinds out that he won't last if she doesn't fucking lay off, and then rolls them over to pull him easily inside her folds. The sensation is overwhelming, and for a moment, the sight of her riding him, head thrown back, hands plastered to his chest, is almost enough to make him come. But then she's moving, and it's everything, and he tells her, palming her breasts and pulling her hair and telling her how good she feels. Right before he finishes, he flips them over.

"Look at me," he orders. And she does, her eyes fluttering as she rides out her orgasm and triggers his.

"Fuck, he hisses, some time later. "I think I'm falling in love with you."

Her eyes snap open, and she takes him in, hovering reverently, attentively over her—the mused white-blond hair, the sweat-slick skin, the bruised lips, the hard length of him pressed against her center. " _What_?"

He sucks in a slow breath, dropping his gaze to hers, all lust and determination and stubbornness. "I said, I think—"

"No," she interrupts, feeling panic well up in her chest as she pushes him away and scrambles off the bed, folding her arms across her naked breasts in a delayed effort to preserve her modesty. "I heard you. I just…you _can't_. We can't."

"Well too bloody bad," he bites out, climbing out of the bed and walking toward her. "I mean it. I am."

"Malfoy," she croaks out, hating how small her voice sounds.

"You called me Scorpius before," he reminds her, curling a long arm around her waist and dragging her against him. She barely stifles her moan.

"Why are you complicating this?" she all but whimpers.

"I didn't want to."

"So _stop_."

He presses a slow kiss to her mouth, his free hand weaving into her tangled curls. "Too late, Red. You're mine."

She huffs in frustration, but doesn't leave his embrace. "I'm offering you casual, meaningless, damn good sex, and you want—"

"All I want is you," he rushes to assure her, reaching to tweak her nose when she wrinkles it in disgust over his cheesy line. "I'm not looking for any kind of promise or commitment." His mouth quirks into a sad half-smile. "Not yet, anyway."

She stares at him for a long moment. "When did you turn so goddamn soft?"

He drops a kiss to her forehead, effectively melting her. "Right about the time you walked into my life."

"Malfoy," she sighs sadly, leaning into his hug. "Don't fuck this up."

He grins wickedly. "Most girls want more than a mindless fuck."

She scowls. "I'm not most girls."

He kisses her again, probably to shut her up. Whatever. She doesn't mind. "I know," he tells her. "That's why I keep you around." And then he bullies her back into bed and reminds her with his hands, mouth, and body why she puts up with him.


	4. Chapter 4

WARNING: NC-17. Pure smut and fluff ahead. Enjoy! Plot forthcoming, but here's something to tide you over. As always, none of Harry Potter belongs to me, and all hail JKR!

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He realizes, somewhere between Christmas and the New Year, that he's in love with her. He's in love with Rose Weasley, and it leaves him utterly miserable until they're both back in their shared dormitory, moments after the last dance of the Welcome Ball, thrown in honor of the Seventh Years the first night of the new term. They stare stupidly at one another, eyes dark with lust and unanswered questions.

"Admit it," he says finally, looping an arm around her waist and cinching her to him. "You missed me."

She sucks in a sharp breath. "I certainly did not," she hisses, pushing against him even as the heat between them pulses, eclectic and alive and hot as hell. "Let me _go_."

His hips roll against hers, and she groans, her head lolling back against the wall he's pressed her against. He grins roguishly. "Could've fooled me," he says, leaning down to capture her earlobe between his teeth. She whimpers, her lashes fluttering closed; he tightens his grip on her waist. "I knew it," he whispers.

"Knew what?" she breathes, eyes closed, body trembling.

His smile widens. "That you were going to be mine." He takes her mouth then, bringing one hand to the back of her head to keep her close. "I love you," he mumbles against her lips. "I love you, Red."

Her tears slide into his mouth, and he deepens the kiss, his mouth hard and demanding. She answers with a passion of her own, slipping her hands under his shirt to grasp desperately at his shoulders, her nails slashing pleasure-pain up and down, up and down, down, down, _oh_ _God, Rose, don't stop_ , down—

He pulls back with a strangled groan, her hands tucked into his belt, their breathing ragged. "I want you," he manages to croak out, before gathering her warm body against his once more, digging his fingers into her loosened hair. Her hair is heaven, soft and full and erotically wild and _fuck_ he missed her and the way her hair hangs past her breasts, how it brushes his chest when they make love, how he tangles his fingers in those thick curls as she brings him to the brink of shattering, chanting an unholy prayer composed of the words _fuck_ and _God_ and _please_ and _Rose_. She's taking control, pushing him toward her unmade bed, and his brain registers just one word now: _mine_.

"You owe me," she says against his mouth, "for waiting so long to say so." Breaking the kiss, she lowers herself to the edge of the bed, and he just stares down at her, overcome.

"I love you," he repeats, stupidly, his voice thick with emotion, and she smiles, reaches up to touch his cheek.

"I know."

Leaning down to brush his lips against hers, he makes quick work of her dress robes, parting them roughly and pushing them down her freckled arms. She's naked beneath them, save for a pair of black knickers, and he almost loses it right there. He drops to his knees in front her, pressing a reverent kiss to her throat. He hears her shuddering breath and smiles against her skin, opening his mouth to slide the flat of his tongue down her chest, between her cleavage, the tightness of her quivering belly, pausing at the wisp of fabric circling her hips. Her fingers knot in his hair, and he registers her voice, somewhere above him, whimpering, " _Fuck_ , Scor, don't stop."

He takes the fabric in his teeth and tugs, gently at first, then with less restraint as her breathing becomes more ragged and her grip on his hair tightens, pulling the knickers from her legs and throwing them in the general direction of her robes.

"You ready, love?" he asks, looking up into her dark eyes.

Her lips quirk into a half smile, a dazed look of pure lust melting him at her feet. "You know I am."

He presses a soft kiss to her inner thigh, then lower, relishing in her whimper, in the scrape of her nails against his scalp, in the arch of her back against the mattress when she falls back, overcome. "More," she gasps, gripping the sheets now. " _Please_."

He flicks out his tongue, sucking hard, bringing his hand to her center and pressing gently against her sensitive nub. She cries out his name and arches into him. "Tell me what you want," he whispers against her flesh, his breath hot against her opening, her scent intoxicating.

She trembles. "You." Her grip on his hair gentles, and he looks up at her for a moment. Her eyes swim with tears. "Only, always you."

He claims her with his mouth, her heady gasps driving him crazy as he licks and nips, quick, aggressive, skilled, the way she likes it, and brings her to the edge of release. She's close, so close, and he sees it in the way her eyes roll back and her breath catches, and he almost comes himself when he feels her pulse, then tighten rapidly, around the fingers he's slid inside her, but suddenly she's squeezing his hand and pulling away from him.

He glances up at her, dazed. "You don't—"

She grips his collar and hauls him up to her, pressing a long kiss to his lips, and _God_ , she tastes amazing, her arousal still on his tongue, and he groans into her mouth. "Fuck, Rose," he swears, pressing her roughly against the bed and hovering over her, supported by his elbows, still entirely clothed. She lies silent beneath him, eyes hooded, lips swollen, breasts shuddering with each breath. "I want you inside me when I come," she whispers, curling one long leg around his thigh and pressing herself up against his throbbing cock.

" _Fuck_ ," he repeats, more emphatically, when she reaches between them to touch his stomach and slip her fingers between his trousers and pants. Closing his eyes against the sensation, he takes her other hand in his and gently sucks each finger. She shivers.

"Off," she whispers hoarsely, and he grins, obediently stripping off his shirt and trousers before dropping his weight atop her and claiming her mouth once more. His lips burn a trail down her jaw to her right breast, cupped roughly in one hand, and he circles one hard nipple, relishing her strangled gasp of pleasure.

"Need you," she practically sobs. "Need you _now_."

It's somewhat of a blur from there, but he remembers shucking his pants, burying his tongue once more in her wet heat, and replacing it almost frantically with his cock when she chokes out his name and carves ten perfect nail-bites into his back. And it's as though someone presses "pause" on the moment – her mouth falls open in silent scream, her eyes squeezed shut, and he trembles almost violently, dropping his forehead to hers. He's afraid to move, afraid for this to end, afraid that he's dreaming, but then she breathes, almost too soft for him to hear, "Love you. Love you so much, Scor." She rocks up against him, moaning at the contact, and it shakes him from his daze.

He ducks his head, taking one taut nipple between his teeth, his hand curling into her hair, and thrusts. His vision swims, she cries out, and he tries to pace himself, but he's already so close, his hips bucking so wildly that when he sweeps his thumb over her clit, she comes with a scream, head thrown back, her orgasm triggering his own. He collapses, spent, on top of her heaving chest.

"I love you," he tells her some time later, when she's shimmied out from beneath him and curled into his side. "In case I didn't tell you before."

She smiles sleepily up at him. "You did. But I knew." She loops her arms about his neck and presses a slow kiss to his swollen mouth. "I already knew."


End file.
